


Hypoalgesia

by moonblossom



Series: Pyrexia [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Omega!John, Anderson Is a Dick, Angst, Genderqueer, Hate Speech, Intersex, M/M, Omegaverse, Please read the trigger warning notes, Sally is Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a little help from friends and unexpected allies, John is ready to show the world what he's made of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hypoalgesia

**Author's Note:**

> Hypoalgesia - Decreased sensitivity to painful stimuli, from greek hypo, to be lacking, and algesia, pain.
> 
> Warnings for comments that intentionally echo transphobia and verbal abuse towards non-binary and intersex persons, as well as an unhealthy dose of omegaverse-specific misogyny. Potentially triggering hatred and language, please read with caution.
> 
> Takes place in the same universe as [Pyrexia](http://archiveofourown.org/works/983078/chapters/1936640)
> 
> Thanks to Sandy for looking this over. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

Frowning, John fusses and attempts to readjust his collar. Maybe he should wear a turtleneck. But no, that would just draw more attention to it. He's never worn a turtleneck in his life, and despite Sherlock's claims to the contrary, Lestrade's actually relatively observant. He'd notice the deviation. Why on earth had Lestrade chosen _today_ to call them down to oversee some mindless paperwork on a three-week-old case?

He sighs and buttons his collar, the livid bruise half-visible on the left side of his throat. Nothing to be done then. Now that he's off his suppressants, at least one person's going to notice his confusing pheromones anyway. May as well let the proverbial cat out of the bag.

When he steps into the kitchen, Sherlock is hovering awkwardly with a mug of tea, which throws John off-balance. With a watery smile, he accepts the mug and sinks into a chair at the table. Of course Sherlock has gone and figured out that he's stressing about this.

"You don't have to come, John. It's going to be tedious and irritating."

"Well someone's got to keep you in check then, can't have you eating any of the Yarders."

Sherlock makes a face, as though he'd legitimately imagined eating Dimmock or something, and found the idea unpalatable. John snorts out a laugh. "Sometimes you're far too literal for your own good."

"One of us has to be. Can't be surrounded by poetry and awkward metaphor all the time." Sherlock rolls his eyes, gesturing at John's laptop and John swats him half-heartedly with a napkin.

"I appreciate your concern, Sherlock, but they're going to find out sooner or later."

"But it's none of their business!" Sherlock whines, sounding uncannily like a thirteen-year-old girl whose parents have been flipping through the texts on her mobile.

"For once, I agree with you. Unfortunately, since I've made the decision to stop taking the heat suppressants, it's either let them know now, at a time when we've got no case on and I'm not a raging hormonal idiot, or have Lestrade barge into the flat with a triple homicide while you're balls-deep in my arse on the sofa."

Sherlock's eyes light up, and John's not quite sure if it's at the idea of them rutting on the sofa or a hypothetical triple homicide. Probably a bit of both.

"You're being surprisingly logical about this, John."

"I may not be you, Sherlock, but I do have two brain cells to rub together."

Sherlock steps closer to John and runs his fingers possessively through John's hair, hand splayed across the top of his scalp. "Are you certain?"

"You twat." John murmurs affectionately. "Come on, Lestrade's waiting." He stands up and shrugs into his coat, Sherlock following eagerly behind him.

***

Of course Lestrade notices it immediately.

"John! That's quite an impressive bite you're sporting there." Lestrade laughs. It's chummy and familiar and even though it's said in a spirit of positive camaraderie, it makes John's skin crawl. Instinctively, he brings his hand up to rub at it.

He notices Sherlock grinning, all predatory teeth, and cringes inwardly.

Lestrade catches his eye and follows it. He takes in Sherlock's expression and his mouth falls open in a comical O.

"You... Sherlock..." He looks back and forth between the two of them several times, something out of a bad sitcom, as he draws the connection and confirms that Sherlock bit John, marked him as spoken for. Sherlock preens smugly and John finds himself wishing he could melt into the floor.

"Though, John, you hide it well. I had no idea you were an Omega. You trying to get him to settle down then?"

Here it is. John can either smile passively and nod, not bothering to correct Lestrade, or he can take a step forward and take pride in what -- no, _who_ \-- he is. Sherlock, of course, takes that choice away from him.

"John is _not_ an Omega." Sherlock's nose crinkles indignantly, in that stupid way John finds all too endearing, and he feels his irritation dissipating.

"But..." Lestrade's brow furrows as he stares at the bite mark on John's throat and inhales deeply, as if scenting for pheromones. "You're right, he doesn't smell quite all Omega."

"Hey!" John snaps. "I'll thank you to knock off talking about me as though I'm not here. And stop smelling me, it's bizarre."

Lestrade looks suitably bashful. "Sorry, John. Professional curiosity?" He shrugs and grins affably, and John lets it slide.

"Come on, Lestrade. It's obvious." Sherlock sighs theatrically and John elbows him in the ribs.

"Sherlock, if you'll recall, you were stymied until I, uh, showed you." John coughs, covering up an embarrassed choke. Though really, he's not sure why. It's not as if he's described to Lestrade in full detail exactly how he _showed_ Sherlock anything.

Lestrade, bless him, has schooled his face into a calculated expression that's half disinterest and half concern. _Tell me if you want to,_ it seems to say, _but I won't press you_. Somehow, it's exactly what John needs.

"It's... complicated. I won't elaborate, but I'm..." He flounders a bit, trying to find words to describe the space he occupies between worlds in a way that won't cause problems.

"What John is attempting to say is that he is exceptional in all things. Unlike the rest of you, he does not need to conform to the dynamics of an Alpha or an Omega."

Of course, it's at this moment that Anderson and Donovan choose to barge into Lestrade's office.

"Who doesn't? The last victim?" Anderson's voice is nasal and sneering, and John bristles.

"Nobody asked you." Sherlock cuts him off without so much as a second glance, but for once Anderson is more astute than anyone gives him credit for.

"Watson? Is that who you were talking about? So you're one of... those then? Not happy with what you've got?"

John bites his cheek, the pain not quite sharp enough to keep him focused. His vision is going blurry around the edges, rage and fear and self-loathing all congealing into an amorphous mass in his stomach.

"What I've _got_ is none of your fucking business, Anderson." He spits out.

"But what's between your legs? Do you use toys or something? How does that work? Does great old Alpha Sherlock like taking it up the arse?"

John balls his hands into fists, stuffing them in his pockets to prevent himself from embedding them in Anderson's weaselly, rat-like face. The expression on Sherlock's face is impossible to catalogue right now, it's as though he's shut down entirely. It's Donovan, surprisingly, who comes to the rescue.

"For God's sake, Anderson. Shut the fuck up. Whatever John's got going on is working for him and it really is none of your bloody business."

"But--" Every time Anderson opens his mouth, more anger flares up behind John's eyes. He breathes heavily through his nose and tries to keep silent. She interrupts again.

"But _nothing_. You shut the hell up now, or next time you're in heat I'm not going to fuck you. Your mousy little beta of a wife will have to do her best."

She spins on one heel and storms out of the office, leaving John, Sherlock, and Lestrade to blink owlishly in her wake. Anderson blubbers something incoherent and follows her out. John's certain if he had a tail, it would be wedged protectively between his legs right now.

It's not as though Alpha females are unheard of, or even particularly rare. Certainly not as rare as John's case. They are, however, not exactly common, either. There's a bit of a stigma, too, some bull about how they're "less of a woman" than a Beta or Omega female would be. John wonders if Sally had figured him out and sympathises, being a bit on the outskirts herself. Maybe he should go talk to her.

Sherlock drops heavily into a chair in front of Lestrade's desk and busies himself with paperwork. Lestrade shuffles awkwardly in place and nods at John.

"I'm sorry. He was out of line."

"Yeah, he was. Not even gonna try to argue there."

"I'll talk to him."

John's mouth is a thin line, his face taut as he nods slightly at Lestrade. "Not sure it'll accomplish much, but I appreciate the thought. Just make sure he keeps quiet next time and I won't have to hit him."

Lestrade chuckles grimly and Sherlock makes a point of jabbing the pile of paperwork with a pen, but says nothing. As much to soothe himself as to comfort Sherlock, John runs a hand through Sherlock's curls.

"I'm gonna go grab a coffee, alright?" 

Sherlock nods, his hair pulling slightly against John's fingers. John rubs the knob of bone behind Sherlock's left ear, nods once more at Lestrade, and heads out towards the bank of awful coffee machines down the hall.

John catches up to Donovan by the machines. She is, mercifully, alone. At first, he's not entirely sure what to say. He fusses with his coffee, dumping enough sugar in it to make it remotely palatable, and looks up at her.

"Thanks, for earlier."

She sighs, a bit wistfully. "He really is quite an enormous dick sometimes. I'm sorry."

"What do you see in him anyway?"

There's a far-off look in her eyes as she processes John's question. Her shoulders slump slightly and she shakes her head, curls bouncing.

"He just... You know how sometimes Omegas just smell so bloody good, right before the heat hits?" She blurts out, and then clamps her hands over her mouth. "I mean, um, does that... can you smell that? I didn't mean... I'm sorry!"

John holds up his hands in a soothing, placating way. It's refreshing, really, the way she's suddenly so concerned about not saying the wrong thing. "Relax, Donovan. No harm meant, no offense taken. I do know exactly what you mean. God, first time someone in my class went into heat, I thought my head was going to explode."

She laughs, the camaraderie between them strengthening. "I had to get up and leave, first time it happened to someone in my class. God, you should have heard the catcalls. At least I was wearing a loose skirt, they couldn't see..." She flushes and gestures to her crotch. Hesitantly, John reaches out and pats her on the arm. He isn't rebuffed. "And call me Sally. We're not working right now."

John grins, grateful for the personal and professional separation she's offering.

"It wasn't too bad for me until the first time I went into heat while dating someone. He accused me of trying to trick him, like I was somehow playing at being an Omega. 'Course, he told everyone at school I was some kind of mutant."

She scowls, anger darkening her soft features. "People can be such bastards. I'm sorry you had to go through all that."

There's a bank of hideous chairs off to one side of the coffee machines. Orange vinyl, peeling up in places to reveal the stained foam padding beneath. Strangely exhausted, John sinks into one. Sally faces him, leaning against a rickety faux-wood table after pouring herself a watery coffee.

"You're brave to come to the precinct like this." She salutes him vaguely with her cup.

"Not brave, Sally. Just tired. I'm fed up of hiding who I am. It helps that Sherlock finds it all fascinating, I think. I hid it from him for so long. I'm sick and bloody tired of it all."

She laughs. "How'd you manage that? You'd think he'd be able to deduce it from the way you put takeaway in the fridge or how you leave the loo roll hanging or something."

It's all a bit surreal, discussing domestic life and Sherlock and toilet paper with Sally Donovan, but John's immensely grateful for it.

"No, but seriously, John. We shouldn't have to _hide_ anything. Even the amount of shit I get, and female Alphas aren't even particularly uncommon. It's shit, is what it is. What does my gender matter to my job, to people on the street, or really, to anyone I'm not choosing to fuck?"

She spits out the last word, harsh and vulgar, and John studies her anew. He's starting to realise why she seems to bitter and angry all the time. Fighting to be taken seriously as a cop, fighting to be taken seriously as a woman, and never quite fitting in on either side of things. He vows to be kinder to her from now on, and to give Sherlock a good swat across the arse next time he picks on her for no good reason.

"No, you're absolutely right. Fuck them all, Sally. And not in the fun way." He tips his coffee cup forward and she taps hers against it, toasting their newfound bond.

They sit there in quiet silence for a few moments, sipping their lukewarm, overly-sugared coffees. It's Sally who speaks up again first.

"And Sherlock then? He's okay with all this? He respects you?"

John nods. Sherlock, despite his general disdain for personal space and privacy, has been nothing but respectful about all this. He hasn't pushed the idea of experimenting much further, he lets John lead, lets John decide whether he wants to fuck or be fucked, always finding creative and clever ways to keep them both emotionally and physically satisfied. Sometimes John still marvels at it all.

As if she can read his mind, Sally raises one eyebrow. "Your needs all being met then?"

"Sally, I appreciate your candor and your empathy, but I refuse to discuss my and Sherlock's sex life with you." John laughs, a bit sharply, as if to reassure Sally that their newfound friendship is still strong. "But don't worry. He's..." John flushes, that flood of tingling warmth thinking about Sherlock always causes running through his chest. "He's really great. No, seriously!" he interrupts himself when he catches Sally laughing. Her eyes are sparkling, her smile wide in genuine good humour. He's not used to seeing her like this, and it makes him happy in a sort of detached way. "I honestly don't know where I'd be right about now if it weren't for him. So I appreciate your concern, but no need to go threaten to break his legs or whatever."

She nods, and there's a quiet lull between them that verges on awkward but never quite gets there. Thankfully, Sherlock blusters into the hallway like a typhoon and grabs John by the wrist, saving them any further discomfort.

"Come along, John. We need to go visit Molly."

John's silent in the cab, mulling over everything that's happened. Sherlock has remained oddly distant during the ride, but suddenly he reaches out and places a hand on John's knee in a gesture John assumes is meant to be comforting. It's stiff and awkward and kind of endearing, really. Smiling, he pats Sherlock's hand, feeling him relax slightly.

"They are all idiots, John. I'm..." Sherlock scowls. "I'm sorry."

John leans his head on Sherlock's shoulder and does something that might possibly be viewed as nuzzling, if the person labelling it as such had a death wish.

"Not your fault, Sherlock. And besides, not everyone. Just Anderson. But we knew that already, right?"

Sherlock says nothing, but John can feel his shoulders shifting with silent laughter.

"Sally was actually surprisingly," John pauses, hunting for the right word, "insightful."

Shifting under John's chin, Sherlock turns in his seat and stares at John.

"No, really, she was. She's not in quite the same position as I am, but she's. Well, you heard. She's an Alpha. You know that's not particularly common. People pass judgment on her all the time too. She was actually pretty empathetic before you showed up."

A strange and unreadable expression crosses Sherlock's face. Irritation, confusion, and something John can't quite pinpoint.

"Relax, I'm not going to be inviting her round for a pint and to watch football or anything. You're absurd."

"I never assumed you would!" Despite his argument, Sherlock's relief is palpable, and John rolls his eyes.

"It's just nice to have someone who kind of understands what it's like to be on the outskirts."

There's a flash of genuine hurt across Sherlock's face and John cringes, reaching up and wrapping one hand around Sherlock's throat, stroking the soft skin of Sherlock's jaw with his thumb.

"Are you saying I don't understand, John?" If Sherlock had looked affronted at the concept of not understanding something, maybe John would have found this all easier to deal with. Instead, he looks hurt and concerned, and something about that puts John on edge.

"I'm saying you _can't_ , Sherlock. Neither can Sally, honestly, but she's got a better grasp of it. You are brilliant and intelligent and amazing and you're being surprisingly accommodating about all this, but--" John cuts himself off, sighing. Abruptly, Sherlock wraps his arms around John and pulls him close, so they're nearly occupying one seat of the cab. He buries his face in the curve of Sherlock's throat and breathes deeply, the familiar scent of _his Alpha_ calming him.

"But I haven't experienced the closed-minded, abusive idiocy you have. I cannot truly empathise. All I can do is be here for you." Sherlock's voice is low and calm and soothing, and John squeezes an arm around his waist in gratitude. John doesn't answer, but then, he doesn't need to. As usual Sherlock's got him all figured out 

The cab pulls up at Bart's and Sherlock steps out, holding a hand out to John. 

"Come along, we've got things to do." 


End file.
